“I do want to get well.  I am in a fever to get well; I want to see my wife.  But my recovery will be evidently a tedious affair.  I cannot wait to see her till I am strong enough to travel.  Why should she not come to me here?  She can—­she must come.  Write to her, Gilbert; tell her how I languish for her presence; tell her how ill I have been.”

“Yes; I will write by and by.”

“By and by!  Your tone tells me that you do not mean what you say.  There is something you are keeping from me.  O, my God, what was that happened before I was ill?  My wife was missing.  I was hunting for her without rest for nearly a week; and then they told me she was drowned, that there was no hope of finding her.  Was that real, Gilbert? or only a part of my delirium?  Speak to me, for pity’s sake.  Was it real?”

“Yes, John; your perplexity and trouble were real, but unnecessary; your wife is safe.”

“Safe?  Where?”

“She is with her father.”

“She did not even know that her father was living.”

“No, not till very lately.  He has come home from America, it seems, and Marian is now under his protection.”

“What! she could desert me without a word of warning—­without the faintest hint of her intention—­to go to a father of whom she knew nothing, or nothing that was not eminently to his discredit!”

“There may have been some strong influence brought to bear to induce her to take such a step.”

“What influence?”

“Do not worry yourself about that now; make all haste to get well, and then it will be easy for you to win her back.”

“Yes; only place me face to face with her, and I do not think there would be much question as to that.  But that she should forsake me of her own free will!  It is so unlike my Marian—­my patient, long-suffering Marian; I can scarcely believe such a thing possible.  But that question can soon be put at rest.  Write to her, Gilbert; tell her that I have been at death’s door; that my chance of recovery hangs upon her will.  Father or no father, that will bring her to my side.”

“I will do so, directly I know her address.”

“You do not know where she is?”

“Not yet.  I am expecting to obtain that information every day.  I have taken measures to ascertain where she is.”

“And how do you know that she is with her father?”

“I have the lawyer’s authority for that; a lawyer whom the old man, Jacob Nowell, trusted, whom he left sole executor to his will.”

It was necessary above all things that John Saltram’s mind should be set at rest; and in order to secure this result Gilbert was fain to affect a supreme faith in Mr. Medler.

“You believe this man, Gilbert?” the invalid asked anxiously.

“Of course.  He has no reason for deceiving me.”

“But why withhold the father’s address?”

“It is easy enough to conjecture his reasons for that; a dread of your influence robbing him of his daughter.  Her fortune has made her a prize worth disputing, you see.  It is natural enough that the father should wish to hide her from you.”